The Rebels of Ireland (99 page)

O'Byrne and Lord Mountwalsh had been waiting by an alley for almost half an hour. The hansom cab was waiting round the corner, not far away.

As soon as they had arrived, they had ascertained that the Wexford men had yet to move, so they had positioned themselves sensibly so that they would see the Thomas Street contingent when they approached. There was even a lamppost nearby, so that they would get a good look at their faces.

But nothing had happened. After a little while, Hercules had begun to be impatient. By now, he was hardly able to stand still. Yet if they moved now, there was always the chance that they'd miss their quarry just as they passed. Finally, one of the Wexford men ran past them up the lane in the direction of the depot. No doubt they, too, wanted to know what was going on. A little while later, he came back and they heard him call:

“They've gone. The depot's empty.”

Beside him, Finn heard the earl's muttered curse.

“Come,” he hissed, and turned back towards the cab. As they hurried along, Finn could sense the earl trembling with rage in the darkness. “Take me to Thomas Street,” he ordered as soon as they reached the cab. “Show me the place.”

When they got to the depot, it was just as the Wexford man had said. The mess was remarkable: pikes, swords, even the valuable
flintlocks were strewn on the floor. There were pouches of shot, kegs of gunpowder…and not a living soul. The last of Emmet's men had fled.

It was frighteningly clear by now that Hercules's rage was rising to the point of danger. He picked up some of Emmet's manifestoes, which were piled on a table, and flung them furiously to the floor. For a terrifying moment, Finn thought he was going to kick a keg of gunpowder. Then he unleashed his fury upon O'Byrne.

“You villain!” he shouted. “You've deliberately led me on a wild-goose chase.”

“Would I do such a thing, your lordship? I swear by all the saints…”

“Damn your saints,” roared the earl. “You Irish rogue, you papist dog! You liar. You think you can double-cross me? Where is Emmet? Where is my son?”

“I do not know,” cried Finn in vexation.

“Then I will tell you this.” The earl's voice was suddenly cold with fury. “If Emmet and my son are taken and executed, well and good. You, of course, will get nothing. Not a penny. But you will keep your life. But if they escape, then I shall know that you were in league with them.” He brought his face close to Finn's. “Remember, O'Byrne, I have seen you here. I know you were one of the rebels, and I shall testify to it.” He brought his face even closer, and whispered with deadly intensity: “I will see you hang.”

Then he turned on his heel.

“My lord,” Finn was at his heel, “we'll take the cab to the Castle. They may be there. You shall see them.”

“Damn the cab,” cried Hercules unreasonably. “And damn you. I'd rather walk.”

“But the fare, my lord,” Finn wailed. God knows what the fare would be, with all this time gone. “The fare.”

“Pay it yourself,” called back his lordship contemptuously.

And in that he made the rich man's mistake, in forgetting the hugeness of a cab fare to the poor. It was a fatal mistake.

For now, as he gazed, speechless, after Lord Mountwalsh, something snapped in Finn O'Byrne. He suddenly realized that he still had the folding pike under his coat. Taking it out, he snapped it open. Hercules heard the sound just before he reached the gate of the yard, and turned—only in time to see O'Byrne rushing at him with the great, gleaming blade of the pike pointing straight at his stomach. He tried, without success, to ward it off as the blade sliced with a ripping sound through his coat, and he felt a huge, fiery pain in his bowels. He sank down on his knees. Finn had his foot against his chest. He was dragging the pike out. Hercules felt another massive pain, heard a sucking sound. Then he saw the terrible, bloody blade of the pike flashing down towards his neck, and felt a blow like a thunderbolt bursting upon him.

Finn stood back. Lord Mountwalsh's body was pumping blood onto the ground. He watched it, quivering. Good. He hoped Emmet and his men had succeeded in breaking into the Castle and done the same to all the cursed Englishmen there.

After all, he might have betrayed Emmet, but at least he liked him.

He looked around. It would be better not to leave the body here. On the other hand, he couldn't drag it out into the street. At one point, he observed, the wall of the yard was only six feet high. He stood on a box and looked over. A small compost heap lay below the other side, at the end of an unkempt piece of waste ground. He went inside, fetched a ladder, and rolled the earl's body onto it. Dragging the ladder and raising the free end onto the wall, he was able then, without too much difficulty, to pull the corpse up a few feet until he had Mountwalsh draped over the wall. With a little lifting and manoeuvring of the ladder, he was able to tip it over so that it fell with a soft thud on the other side. He took off his bloodstained coat and tossed that over, too, along with the pike. Then he wiped the blood off the ladder and replaced it in the house. He found a basin and a pitcher of water in which he washed his hands. He splashed some water on his boots. On the back of a chair in the
main room, he saw young Emmet's coat. He didn't suppose Emmet would be needing it now.

When he came back into the yard, he found the cabby waiting there.

“Are you gentlemen done?” the fellow asked.

“Those gentlemen are gone,” he replied. “You know who I am?”

“No, Sir.”

“I am Robert Emmet, but you never saw me here. Otherwise, you're a dead man.”

“All right, Sir. But who'll be paying the fare?”

“Fare? You did it for the cause.” He actually gave a fair imitation of Emmet's tones. “Now, go.”

“Not without my fare.”

“Indeed?” There was a sword lying at his feet. He stooped, picked it up, and rushed at the cabby, who fled into the street. The fellow was so frightened that he didn't even jump onto his coachman's seat, but ran eastwards, towards the city.

It was time to go. Tossing the sword back into the yard, Finn O'Byrne crossed the street. Moments later, he had vanished.

Georgiana was grim-faced. Her coachman was getting nervous. He still had no idea why his mistress was out like this, but things were getting ugly.

A little while ago, in the streets below Christ Church, they had encountered a large group of men who had stopped the coach and asked, politely enough, if they had seen a young man leading a party of men. “I'm looking for someone, too,” she had told them, and described William. But they didn't know him. “Where are you from?” she'd asked. Wexford, they told her, and went on their way. But by now, the streets seemed to be filling with mobs in a very different kind of mood.

“Drive up there,” she ordered.

“That'll take us into the Liberty, my lady,” the coachman warned. But she made him do it.

The word of the rising had spread like wildfire. Some of the men drinking at the inns still had their weapons with them. Mobs, often half drunk, were forming in the streets, shouting for the rebellion.

Georgiana didn't care. She'd been to the Castle area where the military patrols were out, and she'd been down by the quays. Now she meant to try the Liberties. If there was any chance of catching sight of her grandson, she wasn't giving up. They crossed Francis Street. Several times, knots of men and women slowed their progress and even knocked against the side of the carriage. But when a fellow gave her coachman a thoughtful dig in the ribs with his pike, she knew she couldn't ask him to go on. “Go down to Thomas Street,” she said. “It's bigger than these lanes, and we'll go back to Christ Church from there.”

But now, as they came out into Thomas Street, they found their way barred. A crowd of several hundred had gathered. And from their shouts and curses it was obvious that they were in a vicious mood. They had just stopped a carriage in the middle of the street. Some of the men were carrying lanterns. By their light, she saw a flash of pikes. The coachman was trying to whip his horses forward, but some of the men had caught them by the bridle. They were forcing one of the carriage doors open, dragging an elderly gentleman out. Then another man, a clergyman by the look of him. She heard screams. They were starting to trample the old man. Then, as if of their own volition, over the heads of the crowd, she saw several pike blades moving towards the spot. She saw one of the blades dip. Then another. The crowd roared. They had just skewered the clergyman.

Her own coachman was trying to back the horses up to turn the carriage, but like a tide, the crowd was running back and flowing round them. There was a hammering on the door.

There was nothing else to do. She pulled down the window and showed her face.

“What is it you want?” she called out.

“A woman. It's a woman,” somebody cried out. A man leaped up and poked his head inside. “It's just a woman,” he called out. And
the crowd slowly parted as her carriage moved through. She tried not to look at where the two men who had been butchered lay. The carriage rolled slowly towards Christ Church.

The assault, when it came, was so sudden that she didn't even have time to be frightened. The man ran out, leaped up to her door, and adroitly swung himself in before she could even scream. The coachman didn't even see it. She gasped and prepared to defend herself. But the intruder threw himself back into the seat.

“Go down Winetavern Street, quickly,” said a voice that was familiar. And with a flood of relief, she realized it was John MacGowan.

He did not explain, just quietly gave her directions for the coachman. In moments, they were going westward again, in the area by the quays, then turning up a narrow lane until he asked her to stop by a dark alley.

“Tell the coachman to wait, and whatever you see, don't say a word,” he said.

He disappeared into the alley and was gone a little while. At last he reappeared, almost carrying a figure with a bandage round his head. He pushed the figure into the carriage and called up to the coachman: “My nephew. Those rebels set upon him. It'll be safest if you go back along the quays towards College Green.”

Once back in the carriage, he leant down to the figure on the floor, who had just let out a groan, and whispered:

“Keep quiet, for the love of God. You're in your grandmother's carriage now, and it's all over.” Then he exchanged a few urgent whispers with Georgiana, who, as they came to College Green, said loudly so that the coachman should hear:

“You'll do no such thing. You'll bring the young man to my house for the night.” And she ordered the coachman: “Drive straight home.”

In her house, it was easy enough to get the bandaged young man up the candlelit stairs to a bedroom, without anyone having the least idea who he was. There MacGowan remained with him, while Georgiana and the coachman related to the servants how nearly they had all been killed by the rebels who had also assaulted her friend's
nephew. When the cook had prepared a bowl of stew and a jug of claret, Georgiana insisted on taking it up to the invalid herself.